Shifting Sands
by Recens Aetas
Summary: This story takes place ten plus years after the EW sequence. Several years after EW, the piolts, as a whole, take over a contenent on Earth and create their own four-way Empire. Trouble and entrigue strike, both leading the piolts through yet another vi
1. Epilogue The Lesson

Notes - This story is suppose to take place approximately 10 years after the Endless Waltz sequencing, when the boys have become men. The basic idea is that, as a whole, the GW pilots captured a continent on Earth and started their own empire. The basics of their empire are covered in the Epilogue. Comments, flames, suggestions, what ever are welcome...not so much flames, but you get it.

Disclaimer - the only thing I own are Desari Syndil, and the story itself.

EPILOGUE - THE LESSON

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Silence - a foreign concept for this small village school house. Students ranging from five years to nearly seventeen years occupy the space, the elder students taking up the back rows where they share their escapades with all the vulgarities that they can manage, where as the younger students sit in quiet awe at the fore front of the small room. All the intermediary take up what seats they can, closest to their own, in the effort to keep their numbers strong should the class above them move to strike while they are without supervision. The ruckus that each grade provides is an effort to be heard over their neighbors, who, in turn, only raise their voices to be antagonistic, which results in a never-ending cycle of screaming and yelling to be heard over someone else.

The sound abruptly ceases, however, when a wizened old man shuffles through the doors to be greeted by the unforgiving din, and casts a hard eye upon all those that sit before him. Indeed, that strong expression causes the little children to recoil in fear, and the elder children to still - some out of respect for the totem head, others to be spared the cane that he maintains so threateningly upon the wall. Spare the rod, spoil the child is not so much in effect in this place - they are, what higher society would consider, a "backwards" community. A soft hand is not a part of this place, nor is a gentle and comforting word, lest it be upon the home front, and even in that case, it is few and far between who are treated kindly.

The crooked elder continues to fix each and every one of his students with his glassy eyes, waiting until they either look away or wince, and is highly satisfied that he can still manage to make every single one of them break eye contact in under thirty seconds. His face contorts into a self satisfied smirk that appears more of a snarl, then continues toward his desk, set in the center of the rather large room. The hunched figure shrugs out of his traditional professor coat, laying is haphazardiously upon the great wooden desk.

"Make ready."

A man of few words, none of which are kind, he has ground obedience into his pupils, giving them orders without embellishment nor a kind tone. The quiet shuffling of papers and opening of desk lids ensues, each child producing a writing utensil and a shief of paper, as per their teacher's direction. The sound of ink wells opening and the desperate scratching of pencils upon the underside of desks punctuate the slowly materializing silence, each student at the ready to enscript the words that their instructor is about to speak.

Waiting uncharacteristically until each student is prepared, the professor comes to the front of the desk and perches himself upon the corner, his thin and brittle arms crossed over his shallow chest. He looks upon the faces of those who sit before him, feeling, oddly, at a loss. How would he make these children ready to face that which would take place in only a few days? How could he drill in strength to these weak minds in just a month? He continues to stare vapidly at those who occupy the room, his frown deepening slightly.

"As most you know, our society has a yearly custom..." How many times has he given this speech? Yearly? His eyes drop to the front row of eager eyes, trying desperately to find his words. A delicate cough punctuates the stillness of the room, the guilty party's hand flying to their mouth to muffle the noise, their effort all but too late. Abruptly the professor stands and sidles to the wall behind his desk, toward a hand scripted map that hangs upon the wall.

"Our country is divided by four. To the North is the realm of Lord Yuy, and is the base of our country's higher Military. To the West, home of Lord Maxwell and the birthplace of Industry. South, Lord Wufei and the Army. And finally, East, Lords Barton and Winner, and the place of Higher Thought and The Arts." During his monologue, his weathered and cracked hands move over the outline of each of the provinces, clearly defining the boundaries of each.

"At the center of our country is a place known as The Core, and is home to none, but houses a gigantic facility used but twice a year, or for conferences between The District...that is what the Lords are known collectively as, The District.

"Each year, the men who turn eighteen are sent to The Core upon the turning of the Spring season, and are assessed. Proficiencies are considered, as well as the physical and mental tests that they will be exposed to, and are thusly assigned to a District for more formal training. They who are philosophical or artistic are put under the care of the Lords Winner and Barton, where as those who are exceptional in the art of War are sent to train under Lord Yuy. For those gifted with crafting knowledge and engineering abilities, they are put under the care of Lord Maxwell. Lord Wufei is charged with the training of those who are talented with War, but do not have the same prowess that Lord Yuy seeks. For those who are lacking in these four areas, they are distributed to each of the Lords, and are put under the care of their Agricultural division, where they will learn to farm and to raise live stock..."

Having his back turned to his class helps to abate his fear of their reaction, as he can not see the young men, preparing to turn that fated age, with their jaws agape or clenched, nor the expressions of utter shock upon the children's faces who did not have the previous knowledge. Perhaps the trepidation should have worn thin by now...does he not give this speech often enough? The fact that these children cannot remember from one year to the next should not be any concern to him! What does it matter? Why bother offering this now, when they should have remembered from the years prior? Why bust his own ass only to have his pupils forget?

"...a month prior to the men's evacuation, young girls who are approaching or are already within their sixteenth year are subject to the ceremony of The Gathering. Dependent upon the location of a village, delegates of the District are sent to collect all young girls who are of age, and take them to The Core.

"There, all girls are subjected to...testing, and cleansing. Those found unworthy are then returned to their village, where they may do what ever they might desire - they may return to their schooling, or travel abroad. Once released from The Core, these girls have been through the rigors and the right of Womanhood, and are considered adults, thus having control over their life. They are no longer under the control of their parents, though many girls return to this comfort.

"For those who do pass these rigors and are not returned to their villages..." He hesitates here again, once more uncertain. Where they ready? This is always the classic struggle of doing what is right and keeping these young minds safe, and it always caused the elder pause.

"...for those who are not returned to the villages, they are combined with others hailing from the same District, then offered as insurance of good will to the other Districts..." He forces himself to stop and glare over his shoulder here, responding to the plethora of gasps and other noises of shock that radiate from each gaping mouth that arises with this new information. The younger children, those who have only been inducted into the school yard ranks within the past year or so are spared from his glaring and unforgiving glare, where as those who have heard this charge before are bored into. There are, however, a few with the expression of a convicted soul, readying themselves for the long mile walk. Systematically, each mouth closes and all pairs of eyes are dropped to their desk, all unwilling to charge their tutor further. With a disguised growl, the elder turns about to face the class, anxiety for their well being being dismissed, as it always is.

"Each District lord chooses one girl from each of the other Districts, as well as one from what he offers. Each Lord is granted four girls a year from this meeting, and they are all inducted into his harem. Little is known about these girl's lives after their induction, and it matters very little at such a point...why aren't you writing this down, hn?" The sudden lack of lead and quills nibs scratching against paper press in upon the old professor, his cold glare squaring off with each person who sits before him. As though collectively compelled by a higher force, every child reaches for their writing untensel and begins to scratch fiercely against the white of their paper, paraphrasing the old man's words. A deep sigh is offered against the sound of the writing masses as the elder sits gingerly in his chair, a light shake of his head being given. How many of these students will take away something? It doesn't matter, does it? Nothing will change - it hasn't for many, many years, why should it now?

As the scratching subsides, a gnarled hand reaches out for a thickly bound book upon his desk, and gives a deep-throated cough to gain attention.

"Now, if you all will open your composition books..."


	2. Chapter 1 The Gathering

Notes - This story is suppose to take place approximately 10 years after the Endless Waltz sequencing, when the boys have become men. The basic idea is that, as a whole, the GW pilots captured a continent on Earth and started their own empire. The basics of their empire are covered in the Epilogue. Comments, flames, suggestions, what ever are welcome...not so much flames, but you get it.

Disclaimer - the only thing I own are Desari Syndil, and the story itself.

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CHAPTER 1 - THE GATHERING

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"Hanna Cartwright." The voice was clear and concise, yet it over pronounces every syllable, and makes things that are familiar feel out of place, like a genetically engineered rose placed among a field of wild dasies. A young girl shivers despite the heat of the day, her skin producing a cold sweat. _This is it...this is really it._ She hadn't believed that there truly was such a thing as The Gathering, she had never witnessed it! The school master had been able to afford the younger children that..sparing them the trauma of seeing older sisters and friends being carted away in some large, metal truck.

"Desari Syndil." Hearing her own name called, she realizes that this felt like a dream - she is looking upon her own body and seeing the scene from a different perspective, not out of her own eyes. Her large hazel-green eyes lift from under blonde tipped lashes, her eyes bright against the rich olive that is her skin. As she bends to gather her belongings - two cases filled to the brim with all of her belongings - her hair spills over her shoulder, obscuring her vision. With a delicate movement, she tucks the unruly tresses behind her ear. _It must be spring... _ she muses, a phantom of a smile touching her lips. _...the red is already coming through._ Bright streaks of crimson, berry, blood and ruby weave through her normally chocolate brown locks, giving her a distinctly different apperence over most of her class mates. She wears it long - well beyond her shoulder blades - and allows the lush waves of it to remain virgin. Today, it is no different.

Hefting the two bags, she peers over her shoulder and allows a weak smile to be offered to her village before beginning forward, her gaze lingering upon the small woman before her, then the truck. The voice sounds again, calling forward the next of Desari's classmates to the back of the truck. She can feel her bare feet against the hot sands, and allows herself to sink her toes into the thick grains before she must depart upon the metal beast. Rounding the corner of the truck, she begins slowly up the ramp proped against the rear bumper of the truck. About half way up this ramp, Desari lifts her eyes from her feet, and all but drops her cases and gapes, utterly taken aback, by the sheer number of other women confined within the belly of the beast.

There were seats bolted to the interior walls of the truck, each raised about a foot off of the ground, and padded. Black belts were fitted across each woman's lap and across her their chests, confining them to their seats. Above their heads was a closed vent with latched doors. The ones toward the back of the truck were open, waiting to recieve the next passenger's luggage. Hanna, the girl who had been called before her, is just stowing her bags above the first empty seat, her face pinched and taunt, as though she is trying to hold back tears. She is shorter than Desari - just skimming 5' to Desari's 5'5" - and she has short, curly blonde hair. She is darkly tanned, making her bright blue eyes almost pop out of her body with the extreme color difference. She has yet to reach The Age, and is yet pudgy and without distinct curves.

A primal reaction takes place, causing Desari's throat to close and her eyes to well with tears. She hurridly starts up the ramp once again, and closes the space between the opening of the truck's mouth and Hanna. She drops her bags without reguard for where they land, and throws her arms around the tortured girl. She is instantly rewarded with the same attention, Hanna's arms snaking around Desari's sholders and her face becoming burried in the crook of her neck. Hot tears stream against her skin, and the girl convulses in her arms, her sobs buffeted against Desari's neck. Her hands move to the back of Hanna's head and, gently, she strokes her hair, offering a strangled, yet never-the-less determined "shhh". After a few moments, they pull apart, yet their arms remain entwined, Desari offering a weak half smile to Hanna's miserable hiccuping.

"Shhh, Hanna-sama. We'll be back home before tonight is over, you'll see." Her voice is choked and hushed, but there is vindication behind her words, as though she truly believes them with every fiber of her being. Why should they not come home?

"...Desari..." Hanna's voice is pittiful moan, her tears starting anew as soon as they break their contact. Desari allows her features to pull into a frown, and she gives a firm shake of her head. She pulls the rest of the way out of Hanna's embrace and guides her to her seat, fitting the belt into the clasp to keep Hanna seated. She speaks as she bends over to pick up her own baggage and stuff it into the over head compartment, as well as resituate Hanna's belongings to close the door.

"Hanna, you mustn't cry. It's not as though they are going to kill us!"

"You don't know that, Syndil." The voice is a drawl, which makes it all the easier to identify the antagonist. Without turning around, Desari gives a deep felt sigh and once again shakes her head, flipping her abundanace of hair over her shoulder.

"Why do you need to do that Hira?" Desari peers over her shoulder at her friend, her expression vaguely amused. Hira offers a foxish smirk to her Desari, giving a subtle motion that infers that she was simply doing it out of spite. She could not be more the polar opposite of Desari. Where Desari is of moderate height, Hira is nearly 6'; all torso to Desari's endless leg; short black hair, rich brown eyes, and pale porciline skin in contrast to long and red streaked brown, a multitude of greens, and olive complexion. Where Desari has moderate curves, Hira has come full force into her womanhood, her breasts full and her hips expansive.

However, while Hira has her wiles, Desari is lean and strong, more muscle than fat. At their community belly dance cerimonies, Hira is unwilling to allow herself to expose her torso, embarrassed that she does not have the distinct panes of muscle that Desari does, and she is unable to dialate and release in expert rhythems. This, however, does not detour the male suitors that Hira seems to tempt to her door like bees to a flower, and is apt to put this under Desari's nose when ever the vindictive mood strikes her.

"Because I can." Hira finishes loading her luggage into the compartment and takes a seat opposite Hanna and Desari, her legs crossing femininly at the knee as she becomes comfortable. With a snort, Desari takes her seat and fastens herself into the belt, giving a bit of a scowl to Hira. She does not waste too much of her attention on the female across from her, for suddenly the hatch closes and the masses are pitched into a thick darkness, which is puncutating by several high pitched screams. Hanna is one of the guilty and instantly attatches herself to Desari's arm, her entire frame once again in convulsions.

"It's so dark!" Hanna cries into Desari's shoulder, her nails biting uncomfortably into her skin.

"I'm sure she can see that." Hira drawls once more, her tone amused.

"Hira!"

"What?"

"I can't see! Gods, I can't see!"

"And what is Desi suppose to do about it?"

"Hira, shut it! Hanna, let go!"

"Gods, Gods!"

"Would you shut her up then?"

"Auxiliery power on." The voice is a computerize mockery of a female's saprano, her pronunciation and the extra emphasis upon syllables making Desari think of the woman outside. False light instantly floods the truck, bringing everything into sharp detail that the daylight could not have provided, and almost instantly abating Hanna's whimpering. Desari can see several girls strain forward in their seats to watch the simpering girl cling to her friend, most of their features set in amused tones while some faces are puncuated with deep, disapproving frowns. Suddenly concious about the looks, she tries desperatly to remove Hanna from her arm by prying her fingers from her flesh, then setting them delicatly in Hanna's lap. Hira simply supplies an amused smirk, her lips twisted in a mocking manner at Desari's plight.

Having removed Hanna from her person, Desari takes the oportunity to look at the other girls in the confines of the truck, and, almost instantlly, notices that each and every one of them are wearing the exact same thing - single piece, black body suits that hug the frame like a second skin. The high neck ends at the middle of the throat, and the arms end at the bicept. The legs continue all the way down to the ankle, or perhaps further, but they then dissapear into ankle high, flat soled boots. The neck was puncutated with a small button, and many women, seeking to ease the hold over their throats, had unbuttoned it, and folded it down to rest upon their collar bones.

Her teeth seek out her full bottom lip, and her brows knit together. Turning a critical eye on her own outfitting, as well as that of her comrades, she cannot help but feel very out of place. Her torso is clad in a white, flowy, off the shoulder peasant top that ends just above her belly button, and her bottom half in a free-flowing skirt of deep reds, blues, yellows and oranges. The rest of those who hail from her village are dressed in the same manner, with a few differences between people, according to personal flair.

_ i 'Dress conservitivly', they say! But how was I suppose to know I was to dress as though a tempting mourner!_ /i Her brows knit further together, a deep sigh being expelled.

"Hira...did you know that we were suppose to dress like..."

"Brooding sluts? No, I didn't." Her voice is loud - louder than Desari would have prefered it to be when making the comment - and draws a series of scowls and vulgar motions. In reply, Hira simply puts on the most antagonistic smile she has in her arsinel and gives a small wave. Exasperated, Desari leans backwards and puts her hand over her face, effectivly coming across as the maryter.

"No...that wasn't what I meant."

"What did you mean?" The voice is that of The Delegate who had called the names outside, and she stands over them, one of her hands on her hips while the other hangs infront of her, dark material draped carefully over her extended appendage. She is a non discript woman, her chestnut hair pulled back into an immaculate bun and her figure clad in a thick three piece suit. Her expression is one of masked irritation, her eyebrows furrowed slightly and the corners of her lips drawn down into a disapproving frown.

Desari's brain all but freezes, her mouth hanging ajar. "Uh..."

"She never knows what she's talking about - you will have to excuse her, madam." Hira offers a false smile with an equally sugary tone, purposfully drawing the negitive attention away from Desari. The Delegate simply snorts, then begins to unburden her extended arm, placing the black material in each of the new girl's laps.

"You will need to change into this directly - we will wait the truck until you do so. There are stockings and boots under your chair - you should find them to be of adequate fit." After passing out the last of the material, she stands with her arms crossed over her chest, fixing Hira with a glare. As though on cue, Hira picks up the material, allows it to unfold, and stretches it between her fingers.

"Oooh, stretchy!" Simply to irritate the woman, she starts to giggle and continues to stretch the fabric between her hands, almost daring The Delegate to make a statement. Desari allows the fabric to unfold into and she too tests the elasticity of the fabric, but instead of continuing, she unbuckles her belt and stands, quietly looking around for something to put in the eyeline of the rest of the truck so they did not have to expose themselves to complete strangers. When she is unable to find one, she turns toward The Delegate, the question on her lips.

"You must change here." Her voice is a harsh bark, the tone more of a response to Hira's needling than the question itsself. She rips the material out of Hira's hands, throws it back in her lap, then stomps past the group, garnering the attention of several of the onlooking passengers. With a shrug, Hira stands and begins to slide her skirt down her legs, entirely unaware of the others who watch. Desari, by and far more modest than Hira, turns her back on her friend, and discreetly begins to remove her clothing, trying desperatly to shield her nakedness from the rest of the passengers.

The material fights the entire way up her body, especially over the highrise of Desari's breasts and over her shoulders. She finally, however, manages to fit her entire body into the suit, and quickly unfastens the button. She turns around and gives a muted yelp, quickly putting her hand in the way of her eyes and effectivly blocking out the image of Hira, naked to the waist. Obviously slower to naviage her matured body into the suit, Hira is still fighting the material over her excessive hips and stomach, her large breasts bobbing and jiggling as she moves. She is finally able to fit herself into the constricting thing, and promptly sits down, giving a highly dramatic huff. "They had best not expect me to take this off anytime soon!"

The coment draws several quiet chuckles from the other girls of the village, each of which are in the process of changing. Desari keeps her gaze down, unable to overcome her shyness and discomfort of having other people naked hovering around her. One by one, those what she know take their seats and rebuckle their belts before reaching under their seats for the black socks and boots that are stowed there. The truck abrubtly starts forward, pitching it's occupents backward, straining against their seatbelts. Predictably, Hanna is once again latched onto Desari's arm, a loud wail ensuing.

The computerized voice once again comes over the speakers, her tone bland, yet perfect. "The Core - E.T.A. one hour."


End file.
